“Thank you for doing this,” I say.
Nick smiles and blushes a little but doesn’t answer.
In a flash Peter is back out the door and putting on a windbreaker. “Let’s go,” he says.
“Be careful. Wear your seat belt,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Erskine,” Nick says. “Nobody rides in my car without wearing the seat belt.”
I watch as the car pulls off into the darkness, top down, lights blazing, and radio blaring.
“The neighbors are gonna love that,” I say to myself as I walk back in the house.
Back inside, I go into our bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. Suzanne’s Afrikaans Bible is lying open on the night stand. I look at the passage in Job she has been reading and translate:
And Job continued his discourse against his accusers, saying:
As surely as God lives, who has denied me justice, the Almighty, who has made me taste bitterness of soul,
as long as I have life within me, the breath of God in my nostrils,
my lips will not speak wickedness, and my tongue will utter no deceit.
You accuse me, but I will never admit you are right; till I die, I will not deny my integrity.
I will maintain my righteousness and never let go of it; my conscience will not reproach me as long as I live.
“Amen,” I say aloud. “Amen.”
Chapter 10
That’s What Friends Are For
Three weeks have passed now since I was arrested. Thanksgiving is two days away, but we don’t seem to have much to be thankful for this year.
Suzanne lost her job at the clinic last week. She wasn’t fired. All of her clients began to call in and request appointments with other counselors. New clients would refuse to be seen by her. My wife did what she considered to be the honorable thing: She quit. The manager of the clinic accepted her resignation reluctantly.
It is Tuesday morning and I am at my desk sorting through the bills. I’ll write checks and get them in the mail before we leave tomorrow for Virginia. At this juncture I am not worried about our finances. But I can tell my wife is. She hasn’t said anything directly about it, but she lets me know in other ways. Like one evening last week. We were at the grocery store. Peter comes up to me and asks what’s wrong with Mom. Seems she told him to put back the box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes (the only thing he will eat for breakfast) and get the generic brand. And then at the check out she made him put back the computer magazine he planned to get. I slipped him a five and told him to go pay for it at another register.
It’s getting harder for me to go out in public. People point, stare, and whisper now. My face or story has been a regular feature on the front pages of most South Carolina newspapers. The first time was for my arrest. Then the press got wind of the evidence that was seized during the search of my home:
CHILD PORNOGRAPHY DISCOVERED AT ERSKINE HOME
From that point the local press started labeling my case as “the most infamous child abuse case in the history of the State.” And that’s what put me over the top. My story went national. CNN, CBS, NBC, ABC, AP, UPI, you name it. They all jumped on the story of Dr. Glen Erskine, accused child molester.
I have resigned myself now to the certainty that the grand jury will indict me. Jim says he will push for an immediate trial date, but it is unlikely to be before February.
Suzanne just laid today’s mail in front of me. There are three envelopes from Merchants National Bank. One I recognize as the standard blue envelope containing our monthly statement. The other two are plain, business white. I rip open the first envelope. It’s a note from the accounts department.
This is to confirm the wire transfer of $50,000.00 to your savings account #4282244-36. The transaction number is 17D-42A1, dated 16 November 1995. If you would like to speak with a customer service representative about savings options that best fit your needs, please come by our downtown office whenever it is convenient.
Well, someone down at the bank has sure made a monumental screw-up. I rip open the second envelope. This one contains a letter.
The payoff balance on your home mortgage for the period Oct. 25 through Nov. 24 was $117,278.33. We acknowledge receipt of cashier’s check #1707 for payment in full of this balance, dated 16 November 1995. Our release of the lien was recorded today, Friday, November 17, 1995. We thank you for your business and would appreciate the opportunity to serve you in the future.
What the hell’s going on? I stare at these two letters. Neither makes any sense.
Or maybe they do.
I pick up the phone and punch in Jim Aiken’s number. He answers.
“It’s Glen, Jim.”
“Hey! You all set to go tomorrow?”
“Suzanne’s packing now. I think Peter and Benjamin were packed and ready last week this time. How about you guys?”
“We’re getting there. Joyce is packing, too. Nick’s excited about going. He and Peter have really hit it off, haven’t they?”
“Yeah, Peter seems like the old Peter now, thanks to Nick. He’s really something, Jim.”
“I know.”
“Did Peter say anything to you about Nick spending the night over there tonight?”
“Suzanne mentioned it earlier. I guess Peter asked her.”
“Is it okay?”
“Of course.”
“Alright, I’ll tell Nick. He asked me about it a little while ago. He’ll probably bring all of his stuff over and we’ll leave from your house in the morning.”
“Sounds good.”
“Well, I guess I’ll see you in the morning—”
“Wait a minute, Jim. I want to ask you about something.”
“Okay.”
“I just got a couple of strange letters from the bank. You know anything about them?”
“That depends. What’d they say?”
“One says I now have an extra fifty thousand dollars in my savings account. The other says my mortgage has been paid off. Ring any bells?”
“You’re not mad are you?”
“So you did this?”
“Guilty.”
“Jim, what the hell’s the matter with you? You can’t just lay out that kind cash for me.”
“Who says I can’t? It’s my money, I’ll do what I want with it.”
“Yeah, but...that’s a hundred and seventy thousand dollars. Can you—”
“Don’t ask me if I can afford it, please. I’m not stupid, Glen. If I couldn’t afford it, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Yeah, but...why?”
“Why? Why do you have to ask why? Let me ask you something. Suppose the tables were turned. Suppose you had more money than you could spend in ten lifetimes. Suppose you had a friend who was getting a raw deal; who was planning to sell his home in order to live. What would you do? Just stand by and say, ‘Hey, it ain’t my problem’?”
“No, of course not. I’d do whatever I could to help. But you’re already representing me for nothing. And you practically gave us this house to begin with. And now this. I don’t know what to say. I—”
“Don’t say anything. I’m glad to do it for you, buddy. Your life is a mess right now. I couldn’t let you put your family through the added turmoil of having to move out of your home. No, you guys are gonna stay right there. You’re gonna have as good a Christmas as you can under the circumstances. Everybody can get what they want. And Peter can have real corn flakes for breakfast.”
I chuckle.
Wait a minute. How did he know about that?
“Thanks, Jim. I don’t—”
“I know you’d do it for me and mine, Glen. That’s all the thanks I need. I’ll see you in the morning. What time do you wanna hit the road?”
“Ah, we better leave around eight. It takes about six hours to get to the farm and traffic may be heavy tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll be at your place around seven-thirty. Nick will probably come on over in a little while. You guys up for another mouth at t
he dinner table?”
“Sure, we’ll probably eat out.”
“Alright. See you in the morning, buddy.”
“Right. Bye, Jim. And thanks again.”
“Hey, that’s what friends are for.”
“You enjoying your week off from school?” I ask Peter. He is at his computer, playing “Doom,” a shareware game with graphics that are startlingly real.
Peter pushes the PAUSE button and freezes the game. He swivels in his chair to look at me as I enter his room. “Yeah, it’s been okay. I’ll be glad to see Granny and Grandpa at the farm. Are we leaving early?”
“Around eight.”
“Did Mom ask you about Nick spending the night?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can he?”
“Yes. I just talked with Jim. He said Nick will be over later.” Peter smiles. “You really like Nick, don’t you?” I ask him.
“Yeah. It’s weird, Dad. I mean, Nick and I are friends...but it’s different from like me and Luke or Gabriel.”
“How so?”
“You know. With Nick, it’s just...different. I mean in some ways it’s like my other friends but...this is more serious. Nick and I talk, I mean like grown-ups talk.”
“Well, Nick is a lot older than you, so it’s natural your friendship with him is going to be different than with you school buddies.” I hesitate. “You all talk about what’s happening with me?”
“Yeah.” Peter looks down. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, son, of course not. I’m glad you’ve got a friend you can talk with.” I sit on the edge of Peter’s bed. He gets up and sits beside me and puts his head on my shoulder. I put my arm around him.
“Nick is Mr. Aiken’s stepson, right?” Peter asks.
“Yes, why?”
“I just think it’s weird he calls him his ‘dad.’”
“No, it’s not weird if you know the whole story. Have you ever asked Nick about how he and Jim met, and how Jim wound up marrying his mother?”
“I’ve asked him, but he won’t talk about it much.”
I smile at my son. “Nick’s father died when he was very young, so I’m sure in some ways Nick sees Jim as the father he never had.” I start to tell my son the rest of the story about how Jim and Nick met last summer and the nightmare they all went through, but I don’t. I figure if that was something Nick wanted to share with Peter he would have done so.
“You know Nick’s car?” Peter asks. “His BMW convertible?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Mr. Aiken gave that to Nick for his fifteenth birthday last summer? Before he even had his permit?”
“No, I didn’t know that. But knowing Jim, it doesn’t surprise me.”
“That’s pretty cool, huh?”
“Pretty cool. I suppose you want a car for Christmas now, instead of a computer?”
“No, Dad. I was gonna talk to you about that. You haven’t bought my Christmas present yet, have you?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t really need a new computer. My old one’s just fine. I know money’s tight and...maybe you should just get Ben all the stuff he wants. He won’t understand if Santa Claus doesn’t bring him what he asks for.”
I kiss my son on top of the head. “Thank you, Peter. But you don’t need to worry about it. Santa’s going to bring everyone what they want for Christmas this year.”
Everyone, except me. I’ll get a grand jury indictment in my stocking.
Ho, Ho, Ho.
We had dinner at the Steak and Ale. When we got home, Peter and Nick went for a swim. As they were headed out to the pool, I casually suggested that they should wear swimming trunks. And Peter laughed. “Right, Dad,” he said. I was so glad my boy laughed. It let me know that he really is dealing with this.
Benjamin is down for the night. I told him a story and lay with him until he went to sleep. Suzanne and I are lying together on the sofa in the den. It is too warm for a fire tonight. Peter and Nick are upstairs in his room talking or reading or playing games on the computer. Being friends.
Christmas is a month away and it’s time to break the news to Suzanne. There will be no trip to South Africa this year for the holidays. Jim told me yesterday to just forget that. He wouldn’t even waste the judge’s time asking.
“Suzanne?”
“Hmm?”
My nose is right up against her neck, just below her ear. She smells so good. No perfume or cologne. Just the natural scent of her skin and radiant hair. I breathe deeply and kiss her on the neck.
“What do you want, Glen?”
“I talked with Jim yesterday about Christmas.”
“We are not going to be able to go, are we?”
“No. Jim said there’s no way the judge will let me leave the country. He says it would be a waste of time to even ask.”
“I guess I should go ahead and call Pa and tell him we’re not coming.”
I wonder how Meneer Smit is going to take the news since he is the one who purchased the tickets for us to fly to South Africa. Charleston to Miami on USAir and then Miami to Cape Town nonstop on South African Airways. Four round trip tickets would have been over eight-thousand dollars. I hope he can get a refund, or else there goes half my severance pay.
“Do your parents even know about my arrest?” I ask.
“No. I was going to write, but I just haven’t.”
“You and the boys could go,” I offer, hoping she won’t think it’s such a good idea.
Suzanne moves a little and turns to look at me. “Asseblief, Glen. There is no way I would leave you here alone for Christmas, especially since this has happened.”
I pull her to me and kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, honey. You want to go ahead and call your dad now? Or is it too late?”
“No, Pa gets up early. It’s a little after five in Stellenbosch. I’ll call now.” She gets up from the sofa and moves to her recliner. She picks up the phone and starts to dial.
“I’m going up and tell Peter and Nick to hit the hay.”
“Don’t you want to talk to my parents?” she asks, still dialing the long international number.
“No, honey, I’m not up to getting into this mess with them. You talk to them. Give them my love. Tell them I said maybe next year.” Suzanne frowns and finishes dialing.
I go upstairs to check on the boys.
“You guys ready to call it a day?” I ask as I walk in Peter’s room. He and Nick are in bed. Peter is reading a computer magazine. Nick, a car magazine. They both look up.
“Yeah,” Peter says, “I hope I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Excited?” I ask.
“Uh-huh.”
“How about you, Nick? You looking forward to tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir. Pete’s been telling me about the farm. It sounds like we’ll have a good time up there. He says his Grandpa is a lot of fun.”
“Yeah, he is.”
“Hey, Dad, if it’s this warm up in Virginia, can we camp out in the barn?”
“I don’t know, son. It’s still pretty cool.”
“Will you at least think about it? Grandpa’s got good sleeping bags and there’s always tons of hay in the barn.”
“Alright, I’ll think about it. You guys need to get to sleep.” I look at the two of them in Peter’s double bed, and without thinking say “Nick, the boys have a guestroom for sleepovers if you’d be more comfortable sleeping in there.”
Nick looks up at me and I see his expression change. He starts to speak but turns to Peter. “I thought you said this was okay?” he says to my son.
“Dad, I asked Nick if he wanted to sleep in here with me tonight,” Peter says. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”
Nick starts to get out of the bed. “Dr. Erskine, if you’d rather me sleep in the other room, I will.”
I step over and put my hand on his shoulder to stop him. I sit on the edge of the bed.
I am angry. Angry that my ordeal has caused my son and his frie
nd to feel ashamed of being in the same bed together. No doubt any other time it would not have been.
“I’m sorry, boys,” I say. “Nick, I didn’t mean a thing by my suggestion other than what I said. I’ve slept with Peter. He’s all over the bed at night. You probably would be more comfortable in the other room. But if you all want to sleep together, that’s perfectly fine. There’s nothing wrong with it. Okay?”
“Thanks, Dad,” Peter says. He gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I love you,” he whispers in my ear.
“I love you, too,” I whisper back.
Peter releases me and I get up to leave.
“Goodnight, Dr. Erskine,” Nick says.
“Goodnight, Nick. I’m glad you’re here. And you can drop the ‘Dr. Erskine.’ Just call me Glen, okay?”
“Okay,” he says and I brush my hand across his hair.
As I step from the room and pull the door closed, I hear Nick say to Peter, “Your dad is really cool.”
Suzanne and I are in bed now. She is reading. I am thinking. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. What else is there to do?
As a Presbyterian pastor, my father’s favorite Christian tenet was the doctrine of providence: how God is in control of everything that happens. It’s still a mystery to me how God can be in absolute control and man can still be free. My father would say it’s God’s sovereignty that makes us free.
I’m sure God has a much better grasp of things than the Reverend Erskine does. And if He is in absolute control, then He’s in control of the mess I’m in. And this leaves me totally nonplused. What in the world did the Almighty have in mind when He let Chris Manning and Tommy Jackson get together?
Suzanne has just closed her book and turned out her reading lamp. She is snuggling up beside me. I know her familiar overtures, the prelude to passion. Her hand is roaming. And I’m not responding.
“Glen,” she says softly, “we haven’t made love...”
I wait for her to finish.
“We haven’t made love since this happened,” I finally say.
In fourteen years of marriage my wife and I have never been in this situation. Neither of us have ever been unresponsive to the other’s touch. I’m not entirely sure why this incident with Tommy Jackson has caused my interest in sex to virtually disappear. Perhaps it’s a combination of the stress I’m under and the whole bizarre situation.
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